Screw Ups
by Isabella Fountain
Summary: Dr Gregory House needs a new life. And he knows just how to get one. ONE SHOT. Set after the season finale.


Dr Gregory House was a shell of the man he once was. Hell, he'd thought the same thing when he suffered from a leg infarction and had to have the dead cells amputated – but this was worse. Much, much worse. He had lost everything. According to the state of New Jersey, he was dead.

He had no money, no home, no life. Dr Gregory House was – by definition – up shit creek without a paddle. He smiled to himself. Had it been a sensible thing to do? Did he consider the consequences? Of course not. If he had thought about the future implications, would he have still done it? Absolutely.

Dr James Wilson was dead. House had been there each and every step of the way. Somehow, Wilson had survived for another seven months – two whole extra months than expected. It meant that they could get more done. Spend more time together; be in each other's company. It was exactly what they both needed. They both had their fair share (and more) of failed relationships, broken down marriages, messed up lives. They knew in their hearts – although they would never admit it – that they needed each other. And it really was that simple. The day Wilson died, House's non-existent heart shattered. Although it wasn't obvious to the outside world, he knew – because it hurt inside. Not just his leg, which always caused him pain anyway. He ached, and longed for his best friend back. The empty space within him yearned for companionship with the only person who had truly known him. He'd felt emotional pain before, of course; but nothing seemed to sting as much as losing Wilson. Even waking up with a useless leg all those years ago – it was nothing compared to this.

Which is why he was standing in front of Lakeview Hospital, Ohio. He had gotten a little bored of pretending to be dead. House needed mental stimulation – contact with the outside world; even if they did all annoy him. His lack of patience was still – well, lacking. The parents who dialled 911 for their kid's runny nose still frustrated him, and the idiots who went to walk in clinics for their self-inflicted illnesses made him really mad. Still, he was a good doctor; some would say the best, and he had decided he was wasting his knowledge and egotistical tendencies by sitting around being miserable. He wanted to make other people miserable, too.

That was when he had decided to call in for a favour. February 6th, 2013 was when he'd made the call. He was stood next to his motorcycle at a lakeside close to New Jersey. It was strangely brighter than usual that day, and if he was a man of religion – which, by the way, he certainly was not – he would've seen it as a sign. The cold breeze whipped around his ankles and his rosy red cheeks stood out against his colourless, gaunt face.

The phone only rang twice before it was picked up by a bored sounding secretary.

"Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, this is Susan speaking, how may I help you?"

House smirked. He wasn't entirely sure why. This microscopic glimpse of his old life had fired a thousand memories into his brain. He wasn't one for nostalgia, but he did wonder if things could have been different.

"Good morning, ma'am, I need to speak to a Dr Eric Foreman right away, please. It's a matter of urgency," House replied, throwing on his best British accent.

"I'm afraid Dr Foreman is busy right now. May I schedule you in for a call back?" House could almost hear Susan rolling her eyes.

"That won't be necessary, ma'am, I'm happy to wait on hold. I know how busy these doctors can be. I also know Dr Foreman won't be able to resist not answering the call," House chuckled down the phone.

As House predicted, Foreman answered the phone within a couple of minutes, "Dr Eric Foreman, Dean of Medicine."

 _So predictable,_ House thought to himself. "So, has Chase destroyed my department yet?"

He could feel Foreman's smile down the phone – as well as his shock, anger, happiness, and God knows what else. It was silent for a long, long time – or what felt like it. In reality, it was probably no longer than ten seconds, but it felt like a lifetime even for House. Then, with one simple sentence, House knew he could manipulate Foreman into giving him what he wanted.

"You crazy son of a bitch, I _knew_ you weren't dead."

-x-

The envelope was left in a thin, black box inside a brown paper bag. It was placed carefully next to House's motorcycle in the motel parking lot at 11pm on February 18th, 2013. House watched from the streaky, dead bug ridden window of his 40$ a night room. When Foreman left – after checking several times that nobody was around – House retrieved the bag and brought it inside.

Except, he wasn't Dr Gregory House anymore.

-x-

Before Wilson died, he told House "not to screw everything up". But the fact that he had faked his death to get out of a jail sentence left little to screw up in the first place. He'd screwed up his relationships with Stacy and Cuddy, he'd screwed up his health by being addicted to Vicodin, and he'd screwed up his finances by making sure Wilson's last few months were memorable. They'd used Wilson's money first. That seemed more sensible, considering he wasn't exactly going to need it. Even thousands of dollars doesn't seem to last long when you're living the high life, though, and it hadn't been long before they'd moved onto House's money.

There had been no plan to Wilson's final months. They quite literally rode their motorcycles to wherever the road took them. They stayed in expensive, five star hotels and ate at posh restaurants. They gambled, too. When they visited Vegas they blew 5000$ just on placing bets one night. House knew he could have won, but to him, it wasn't about that anymore. He didn't care what happened to him after Wilson died. He knew he would bounce back from everything eventually, and one day, it would all be a distant dream. He was Greg House, the infamous diagnostician, and everything went his way sooner or later.

It was when they visited California that Wilson really started to deteriorate. He was having dizzy spells, constant headaches, and suffering from serious lethargy. He knew as well as House that soon he wouldn't be able to walk, or move, or even talk. As soon as the cancer hit his brain, he'd be out like a light – hopefully. They had already spoken about what would happen when the time came, or rather, House had.

"You're not going into a hospital, the idea is ridiculous," he'd said.

"So what do you suggest we do, House? You want me to live as a recluse in a motel? Die on a cheap, nasty bed where teenagers and disloyal husbands have been screwing?" Wilson snapped in reply.

House had pondered for a moment. He knew what he wanted to say but the words seemed to be getting jumbled in his brain. "No," he managed finally. "I want you to live as a recluse in a _hotel,_ not a _motel._ There is a difference. A nice hotel; we can have a sea view, if you like," he smiled at his friend.

"And what about pain relief? Medication?" Wilson hit back. "Or am I destined to die in pain because my satanic best friend can't bear to share me with other people?"

"I am, contrary to popular belief, a _doctor_ ," House replied sarcastically. "I know how to administer drugs. I spent time at Mayfield Psych Hospital purely for that reason."

It hadn't taken very long to persuade Wilson. And so, one blustery November evening, they checked into a hotel in Laguna Beach. They were staying in a suite, which had plenty of room for Wilson to die in peace. House scoffed when Wilson said he wanted to die with dignity, and they had agreed on the term 'in peace' instead, although House still thought it was ridiculous. The morning they checked in, Wilson had had a prolonged seizure and struggled to regain limb function. He was exhausted from that point on, and stayed in bed 90% of the time. He slept for twenty hours of the day, and when he was awake, he wasn't able to talk, or to comprehend what was being said to him.

Just over a fortnight later, on December 16th 2012, House was watching one of his favourite shows in the living area, whilst keeping a close eye on Wilson. By that point, Wilson was almost insane. The cancer had definitely spread to his brain. He sometimes rambled about things that had never happened. Sometimes, he thought it was a completely different decade. At one point he was convinced it was the late 80's, and had asked to go out partying. House thought this would have been a brilliant idea, and if it were a regular patient, he probably would've accepted the offer with open arms – but it wasn't a regular patient. It was Wilson. The one person House cared about.

As House's favourite part of the show came on, he heard Wilson shout his name – which was strange, considering he'd not remembered his name for a few days. House grabbed his cane, and limped into Wilson's bedroom as quickly as he could. Quickly, House realised that Wilson was in a state of lucidity. He sat down in the chair next to the bed, looking at his friend. Somehow, he knew the end was nigh.

"House," Wilson said again, much quieter now. "Thank you."

House stared at Wilson. Was this goodbye? His confident, intimidating gaze went glassy for a moment or two, before he composed himself. "What for?"

Wilson breathed heavily, needing to get out his final words. His lips were painfully dry, and it hurt to move. "For everything, I don't know what I would have done… Without… You…" he rasped. "Don't screw everything up."

House snorted. "It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

He saw Wilson's look, and sighed. He wasn't being shirty with Wilson, he was just being… well, he was just being House. He didn't know how to show empathy or compassion or love. He knew how to be sarcastic and dry. He'd seen so many people die, but he'd never had to watch someone he loved die before. It left him feeling numb, rather than sad.

House sighed again. "I wouldn't have had it any other way," he said quietly.

Wilson smiled, closed his eyes and said, "Me neither," before slipping into a permanent, peaceful sleep; a look of content etched upon his grey, unshaved face.

-x-

Dr Eric Welburn stood outside Lakeview Hospital, one hand resting on his cane, the other gripping a Vicodin bottle in his pocket. He looked up at the building, taking in every last detail – it would probably come in handy later on, when he was proving somebody wrong on whatever the subject of the day was today.

It hadn't been easy to persuade Foreman to help him. _It's impossible,_ he'd said. _I can't just magic up a whole new person._ But House had been insistent, as he always was, and eventually Foreman found himself collecting a passport, driver's license, birth certificate and medical school and work history for Dr Eric Welburn, complete with glowing credentials and references.

House wasn't impressed.

"Eric? You named me after yourself?!" he'd snapped at Foreman.

Foreman sniggered, ignoring House's comment. "There's a hospital in Ohio about to open up a brand new diagnostics department. Go get your new life, House. And don't screw this one up."

Dr Welburn strode slowly into the white washed, eight floor building. He was met by a pretty blonde woman, who smiled at him warmly. She wore a grey pencil skirt and a white blouse that showed off her assets, and made her… interesting. Welburn returned the smile, recognising her from his interview. She made her way over.

"Dr Welburn, I'm sure you remember me," she held out her hand. "I'm Laura Vickers, Dean of Medicine. Welcome to Lakeview."

After a brief tour, Welburn limped into his new office, wearing a white lab coat and ID badge. He looked at the three young, eager faces looking up at him: his new team. They were fresh looking, had obviously just finished medical school. Welburn had been very specific about the requirements of his team. Two males, one female – and they all needed to be enthusiastic and stand by their opinions, no matter what. _I admire that,_ he'd said. _I need people who ain't afraid of being wrong, but who can stand up and admit it when they are._ The female he just needed for the eye candy, really – not that he would tell that to Vickers.

House smirked.

 _Let the games begin._


End file.
